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The growl vibrated through Ethan's bones.
From the treeline emerged a hulking creature, its shape too wolf-like to be anything else—yet far too large, its shoulders level with his chest, its fur shimmering faintly under the violet sky. Its eyes glowed amber, fixed on him with a hunger that turned his blood cold.
Ethan stumbled back, heart hammering. His instincts screamed at him to run, but his sharpened senses betrayed him: he could hear every shift of muscle beneath the beast's skin, every grind of its claws against the soil. It was faster. Stronger. He wouldn't make it three steps.
Think, Ethan. Think.
The creature snarled, crouching low. Ethan's vision sharpened, every detail snapping into focus—its weight shifting to the left leg, the twitch of its tail before the strike. His enhanced senses weren't just overwhelming him now. They were warning him.
The wolf lunged.
Ethan threw himself sideways, dirt exploding beneath his palms as massive jaws snapped shut where he had been standing. He rolled, breath ragged, and scrambled to his feet. His ears rang with the beast's heavy breathing, his nose stung with its musk.
It charged again. This time Ethan ducked under, his body moving almost before he thought, guided by the flood of sensory information. He felt the rush of air from its swipe, smelled the iron tang of its saliva as it missed him by inches.
But he couldn't dodge forever.
And he had no weapon.
His eyes darted to the ground—rocks, branches, nothing useful—until he spotted a broken length of wood half-buried in the soil. Instinct took over. He grabbed it and swung just as the beast lunged again. The branch cracked against its snout, a desperate strike more luck than skill.
The creature yelped, more surprised than hurt, and staggered back a step.
Ethan's arms shook. His whole body trembled with adrenaline. But for the first time, he felt something else: possibility. His senses gave him an edge—not strength, not speed, but awareness. Enough to survive, if he could keep up.
The beast circled, slower now, testing him. Ethan tightened his grip on the branch. He could hear the shift of its paws in the dirt, the rhythm of its growl, the moment its weight shifted for another leap.
He moved first.
With a ragged shout, Ethan swung low, striking its foreleg. The creature howled, stumbling. Seizing the moment, he darted forward and jammed the broken wood into its side with all his strength. The beast thrashed, throwing him aside like a ragdoll.
He hit the ground hard, vision blurring. His lungs burned, his ribs ached, but he forced himself up in time to see the wolf stagger, bleeding, before retreating into the forest with a final, furious snarl.
Ethan collapsed to his knees, gasping. His hands were raw, his clothes torn, his whole body trembling. He had survived. Barely.
But he wasn't alone.
From the shadows of the trees, a voice spoke—calm, almost amused.
"Not bad, Outlander. Most would have been dead in seconds."
Ethan jerked around, senses flaring. A figure stepped into view: a man clad in worn armor, a longsword slung at his hip, eyes sharp as steel.
The stranger studied him for a moment, then smirked.
"Looks like the prophecy wasn't just a fairy tale after all."
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